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Like Papa, Cressida didn’t have many friends. Julia only knew one side of her. Alec had seen, and sensed, the other sides of her that she tried to keep hidden. The Cressida who felt overwhelmed by responsibilities, who harbored some resentment toward Papa. The Cressida who longed to feel beautiful at a party, to gaze at the stars and laugh in the garden. The Cressida who felt so very alone.

And he wanted to be her friend.

She threw off the blankets and hurried to get dressed.

* * *

“Have you made any progress with the coded journal?” Alec asked her as they approached Marston.

“Oh. No, not yet.” She hadn’t had time to work on it, but resolved to remedy that. “But I will.”

She started tinkering with the journal in earnest that very night. After all Alec had discovered, she felt lacking, and so she got it out and covered page after page with notes. Papa had written the dates in English, which at first frustrated her. It would have helped to have a few words whose translation she could easily guess, or at least narrow down to a few possibilities. She tried the usual trick of counting the most frequent letters, but made little headway. She tried looking for common characters and sequences and comparing them to places of battles and people mentioned in Papa's letters home, but that was cumbersome, slow work.

Privately she was a little afraid of what the journal might reveal, although most likely it would merely tell her which officers Papa disliked and how terrible the weather was in Portugal. It could be a complete waste of time, and Cressida had more pressing concerns, like how to pay the bills. Tom sold the sheep to pay their debts, and she was urgently looking for a new place to live. The horses would go back to Mr. Bickford's stable as soon as they had moved house. With some luck, they might make it through this tight spot after all. And if she solved the journal, they might even locate Papa.

She was scribbling more notes when she heard a horse in the lane. Thinking it might be Alec, she hurried into the hall. The visitor was just lifting his hand to knock when she opened the door.

The stranger doffed his hat. “Miss Turner?”

“Yes,” she said warily. A terrible chill skittered down her spine. This was not a social call.

“Walter Clarke, ma’am.” He bowed, but his expression was not cheerful. It was businesslike and firm. Cressida bobbed a slight curtsey, bracing herself. “Is Sergeant Turner at home?”

“No, I’m afraid not. I am his daughter.”

“Ah.” He didn’t even offer to wait until Papa returned. Cressida knew what was coming before he said it. “Then I must inform you in his stead. I am the agent for the owner of this property, and he has leased it to new tenants. Your removal is desired by no later than tomorrow noon.”

“What?” she gasped. “The rent was due but yesterday!”

“Yes, and you did not pay it.”

“No, but⁠—”

“I’m afraid your lease would not have been renewed in any event. It expires tomorrow, and the owner has already taken new tenants.” He smiled politely.

Cressida pressed a trembling hand to her heart, which was pounding painfully. She had known they must move soon, but in a few hours’ time? “Without even a chance to renew? My father wished to stay. . . ”

“Sergeant Turner did not pay the rent. I’m sorry, Miss Turner, but I’m only doing as my employer asked.”

Vividly but silently, she cursed her father. “This is very little warning,” she protested. “I’m not sure we will be ready.”

“I have orders to see the house is cleared by tomorrow at noon. I do apologize, Miss Turner.” He said it gravely, but Cressida thought bitterly that it was very easy for him. He had a home to return to.

She went numbly into the house before Mr. Clarke had reached his horse. They must pack at once—and go where? “Callie? Callie!”

Her sister came running, but stopped when she saw Cressida’s face. “What is it?”

“We must pack,” she said in a hollow voice. “We must be out of the house tomorrow.”

Callie's eyes grew wide. She ran to the door and evidently saw Mr. Clarke departing. "Oh no,” she breathed. "Where shall we go?"

Cressida pressed the heels of her hands to her temples. "Marston, I suppose. Where else?”

Her sister's face paled. Without another word they hurried in search of Tom, to fetch the boxes and crates.

By the next morning they had packed as much as they could. Granny was growing hysterical, fretting that Papa would never know where to find them, and he would be so upset at them for leaving Brighampton without his permission. Granny's grasp of reality was tenuous at best, thought Cressida, replacing another box that her grandmother had tried to take from the carriage before Callie led her back into the house.

Julia Hayes came cantering up the lane. “Are you really turned out?” she cried as she leaped from the horse’s back. “So suddenly?”